Wonderings for November 17

It is interesting to me to notice what defines a place as home. Noticing what little, small, things make home feel. . . well. . . like home. This morning the last member of our family finally made York her home. Let me tell you about it. . . 

While sipping my morning coffee, I could once again hear Luna 'sniffing' behind Emma's door. She was ready to face the day. Now last night I could tell that Luna was getting more comfortable and relaxed in our new home because she repeatedly fell asleep with her monkey in her mouth. Every few minutes I would look out from the kitchen where I was unpacking boxes and there she would lay asleep on our living room rug. Breathing gently monkey and Luna were one.

Today was better still for her. . . . 

I opened Emma's door a little after 6:30 and invited Luna out into the hallway. She trotted down the hall toward the front door. She had no idea what I had planned as she scurried around the front yard sniffing. Then I said it: "Luna," she looks up while turning her head slightly to the side, "Where is the stick?"

Her eyes lit up and her trotting and sniffing became full on running around the yard in excitement and joy. I began to walk toward the church with her at my heels. Every few steps I would ask her, "Did you find it? Where is the stick?" And that would spark her excitement again. 

Finally behind the church, near the disc golf posts, we found a downed pine tree that I knew would be perfect for what I was looking for. As she ran past it I snapped off a fresh piece of pine and held it up. Luna was still running away, so I called her. "Luna where is the stick?" 

Back arched and head held high, Luna ran toward me whimpering in happiness. I launched the stick as far as I could and listened to the rustling of leaves as she ran to get it. Dropping it at my feet she cried again in anticipation and sat down--could I possibly throw it again?!? 

We made our way home. Me walking; Luna carrying her stick proudly. 

At the front door she stopped walking, stick still in her mouth. She looked back at me, and slowly lowered her head and released the vice grip of her jaws on that piece of pine. With a gentle thud the stick hit the ground next to the door and she sat down ready to go get a drink and have her breakfast. Luna was home and her stick proved it. 

Home is a funny thing--if you think about it. I think if you take a moment today and consider it, you will notice that home is defined by little, seemingly insignificant things (like where the stick rests). But without those things, home does not feel like home. 

Craig Barnes says it this way: 

"It doesn't matter what you move, how fast you run, or how many new identities you try on along the way, you can't escape the longing for home. . . "

And so, if we all long for home, I wonder what steps do we take to create and sustain home? And more than just what steps do we take, can we help others find ways to make their transitions easier? 

Blessings

Rev. Derek